


All's Fair (In Love and War)

by pendragonfics



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Pre-The Hobbit, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:33:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23310199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics
Summary: A deserter to the Mirkwood guard, Reader joined Thorin in the battle against his home and joined him in his exile, faithful to the one she loved.
Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield/Reader
Kudos: 26





	All's Fair (In Love and War)

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request on Tumblr!

When there is no home, and when there is no rest, a home must be made, and rest must be taken. Throughout the chaos of your lives, the war, the bloodshed, the merciless hand of the Gods that fiddled in a fickle nature about the business in Middle Earth, there was you, and your love, the Prince of the Dwarves. To another eye, one not versed in the matters of your heart, it would be strange to see an elven woman such as yourself in relations with a Dwarven man as he, but that was an opinion you did not have. None other than yourself had seen him in health and sickness, had nursed his wounds and had been nursed by him as well. None other could say they were his confidant, his friend from childhood, his lover throughout the darkest of times.

The home you lived in was large enough for your quarters adjacent to a hearth, where the ceiling was high enough for you, and the chairs wide enough to support you both. When the memories of the war were not clouding your dreams, you dreamt in each other’s company, the sheets tangled with your legs, and his, and hands intertwined throughout the night’s length. In the morning light, you open your eyes and take in the sight of your love, the Dwarven man that you had pledged yourself to.

He sleeps on as if made of stone, carved by the Gods that he respects. He would appear to be made of stone, but his chest rises with every breath, his braids and their beads quaking with every breath. You are not a deity, but when the moon was on high, he prayed to you, provided libations for you, worshipped you. His skin is healed, whole. But there are ghosts of scars from battles that he has survived. They mark his skin like ink blotches upon parchment, but you are illiterate, and they make up the man that you love.

You love him. _He_ loves _you_.

It’s a strange thing. You’ve always known it, as did he. But last night, those words came forth, and his hands made a masterpiece of the clay that you were formed from. Years, you had known that man, had waited, but you would not want it any different.

Outside, a bird calls and Thorin rouses slowly by its song. His hand is clasped around yours, and his skin, bare of jewellery, shows the bands and grooves from the rings he wears. Your finger traces over them, soft, slow, mesmerised by all the parts of which make the whole of Thorin.

“You look like the Ilúvatar in the sunlight,” his voice is gravelly, but soothing to hear.

“I did not know you prayed to them,” you whisper back. Though this house is yours, and you do not fear the prying of other ears, you want your words to be for Thorin to hear, and Thorin alone.

“When I take back Erebor and become King Under the Mountain,” he kisses your knuckles gently, brushing his lips against your skin, his beard soft too, “I will have your image crafted upon the walls, a relief as to whom I send my worship to. None of the Gods compares to you.”

You feel a flush of heat takes to your cheeks. “You speak as if your words are silver, and you are a smith.” You nuzzle into his side, your face taking up the crook of his shoulder. The bed is long enough for you, and where his feet end, your knees and below feel cold without his presence. But moving closer to him, you make up for the emptiness of that space. “I must be someone of worth to this King.”

“I am not well-versed with words,” he prefaces, voice low, the timbre deep, near-guttural as he spoke words to woo, “and yet, whenever I lay my eyes upon you, they come to me, and I fight against myself to shower you with praises.”

“Whyever would you fight _against_ such praises for me?” you press.

“Why, my love,” he pauses to kiss your cheeks, and then your lips, lingering close to them when he speaks once more, “you would grow tired of praise, I know that of you. Or they would bolster your spirits so high, that I would fall out of your favour.”

You laugh, bringing your hands up to clasp around his head, pushing around the pillow. Thorin was as brave and strong a warrior as you were, perhaps better, but there was something about him that had never understood just how loyal you were to him. You had defied your King, your kind to fight alongside him in Azanulbizar, you had held your affections for him at bay for years, knowing of his station, your rank, the difference of your species. Even though last night you had confessed to him that your heart was his, and his alone, it seemed that he could not believe it.

“My Thorin,” you kiss his forehead, chortling once more, “I am _yours_. Ask for anything, and I will go to the ends of Middle Earth for you.”

He’s quiet, and the silence does not become of him. There is always noise around the Dwarf; there was the _chlink!_ of his armour, the scuffle of his boots, the _pting!_ of the beads in his hair. When he spoke, he spoke with purpose, and when he slept, his snores were roars. But the quiet, contemplative manner to him was odd, and you sat in the bed, recoiling from him, unsure.

Thorin rolled onto his back, tilting his head still to see you. “Would you…I know, you’ve fought before, and it was your trade once…” he trails off, the words half-formed before they were spoken. “I _am_ to be the King of Erebor. I cannot let my birthright stagnate under the wroth of the dragon-beast that festers there.”

“A grand King, you will be,” you supplement, looking to your hands. “…Thorin, if this is you wishing I was born a Dwarrowdam, I have spent years lamenting -,”

“Never,” he breathed. Slowly, he sat up and placed his hands in mine. “I know you well, as you know me, and if love were measured in years, I have loved you since the dawn of time. You say you need no flattery, but you are worth it all in my heart. My dearest, my __________,” he speaks your name as if it is a spell, and casts it over your heart, “When we win back Erebor, would you be my Queen beneath it?”

You close the distance between yourselves, cradling his head once more with your elven fingers. As you kiss your beloved, you intertwine your fingers with his braids, grasping him in your hands, holding him near. He pauses, but reciprocates, his thick fingers and Dwarven palms placed upon your chest, your neck, his touch electric.

“Yes,” you breathe, barely parted from his lips to speak, “Yes, I will be yours forevermore, Thorin.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out [@pendragonfics](https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions)! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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